


Patch Yourself Up and Hold

by navaan



Category: 1872 (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: 1872 (Marvel), Action/Adventure, Alcoholic Tony Stark, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Background Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death - Bucky Barnes mentioned, Emotionally Repressed, Fix-It, Getting Together, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, M/M, Slow Burn, Stubborn Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 13:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16138214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navaan/pseuds/navaan
Summary: Steve knows being sheriff in a lawless town isn’t a good prospect. And there’s the blacksmith who used to be something else in his life before Timely, who thinks his future is as broken as the machine on his porch. They both have their demons. Perhaps what they need is to have each other’s backs and then some.It's a notion as dangerous as giving a good gun to one of Fisk's gunmen.Danger should be avoided. But does that matter in this place?





	Patch Yourself Up and Hold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magicasen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicasen/gifts).



> This is my [Stony Trumps Hate](https://stonytrumpshate.tumblr.com/post/160702925662/navaan-2017) fic for the generous and patient magicasen who won one of my two slots in the 2017 auction and gave to an NPO that’s very dear to me! Thank you so much for that! And a big thank you to,[ Lets_call_me_Lily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lets_call_me_Lily/pseuds/Lets_call_me_Lily) ,for beta & lifting my spirits about the action parts of this fic. Thank you so much for helping me straighten those out. All remaining (or newly added ^^;) mistakes are mine, of course.
> 
> This heavily references _1872 #2_.

Timely was the kind of border town right on the edge of Cheyenne country that saw its fair share of trouble on a good week and lost what little respect it had for the law on a bad one. When the first families had settled it must have been a happy little town, filled with hope and laughter; _striving_. Steve Rogers hadn't been here in those days, but some of the first settlers still remembered it fondly and were always glad to tell about it. The happy beginnings had been cut short, though. With the mine and Roxxon company interests, all manner of folks in search of money and opportunities had blown in like the plague. By the time Steve had arrived with plans of building a life for himself away from the army and memories of war, Timely had already been a town on the verge of lawlessness.

His being here hadn't made much of a difference.

Recently, the decent folks had started packing up, looking for their luck elsewhere if they could. Those who couldn't were trying to keep their heads down while Mayor Fisk's crew set their own rules. This wasn't their town anymore.

And as sheriff Steve knew to watch his back, too. The way of the law keeper was a thin line to walk here. When someone drifted into town looking for something there was a good chance they were only passing through or looking to make trouble. Some of the outlaws and gold-diggers left again, drifting out as easily as they drifted in, but others picked up work with the mayor or Roxxon. Steve had noticed this from the start and known exactly why the former sheriff hadn't survived the job.

Someone had taken the opportunity to shoot him in the back.

And nobody had lifted a finger to stop it.

Fear was the law in this town.

“Dog's job,” General Nicholas T. Fury had warned him before he'd handed him the telegram asking for someone to be sent down to take the sheriff's office in Timely. “Don't go with high plans for bringing order into lawless country, Rogers. Ne'er what that's like. Ya'll do a job. Ya won' get paid much. And at the end of the day whoever bears a grudge gets to take a shot at ye. They only have to aim for the shiny tin star target the town puts on you. Keep that in mind when ya go.”

He didn't need to wonder what his mother would have told him about avoiding a task because it seemed too hard. The answer was clear.

“You make it sound like war. I’m used to war,” Steve had returned gruffly and had taken the telegram from Nick's old gnarly fingers. At the time his mind had already been made up. He was going to go west because that had always been where he'd been headed. He'd remain in Timely until he found a patch of land, someplace to settle down; someplace to forget the war, work the land with his own two hands and live out his last years in peace.

This job needed doing now, but the town wouldn't be the end of his journey. That had been the plan.

Timely had been exactly what he expected — a mining town with some good people who were trying hard to make their living in unfriendly territory, taking their chances among those who had drifted out here because the reach of the law had its limits in this country that was spreading too fast.

Now it was Steve’s job to be the line nobody dared to cross. He wasn’t sure how well of a job he was doing of it.

Steve had never meant to stay. But the little town kept him busy and the good people who remained needed him. Sara Rogers hadn't raised a coward. It wasn't like him to walk out just because things got tough and there was nobody to hand the job to anyway. 

So, despite his knowledge of the previous sheriff’s gruesome fate, he stayed.

Then Bucky came to visit and settled down in town with a beautiful wife shortly after — and it never even crossed Steve's mind to move on, make his luck alone somewhere on the prairie, after that.

Now, in the light of the setting sun when the air was getting cooler, the town looked like the quiet place many settlers wished for; a place where anyone could start a new life and build something in peace. But those who had lived here for a time weren't fooled by the soft evening glow. Like most of Timely, its sheriff knew too much about the dangers lurking in the town's shadows.

He was ready for trouble because that was how he survived out here.

Noises and music drifted down Main Street from the saloon and casino.

Steve sat down on the porch in front of the sheriff's office and watched the street. A coach had arrived; some new faces were staying the night to wait for the train that would be passing through tomorrow. They seemed decent. They seemed genuine.

And yet Steve had watched Fisk's interest in them with subdued worry.

At some point, he'd have to walk down to the Casino & Saloon, have a casual drink and make sure everything there was in order and no foul play would befall the travelers.

The steady drum of a hammer beating metal into shape sounded from the smithy that lay across Main Street. At least Stark seemed to be working tonight, which meant he wasn't up at the saloon, drinking until he keeled over like he did most nights.

 _Count your blessings, Steve,_ he thought and listened to every fall of the hammer. _Count them well. The stubborn mule could be up there getting drunk and upsetting the card sharks by winning. Much better this way._

Stark worked as hard as he drank when one of his unpredictable moods came over him.

Recently that had been a rarity, but tonight he was working like a man possessed.

_Upsetting the neighbors who want to rest now. Just like him._

Steve wouldn't interfere until someone asked him to, though. He liked Stark much better when he was in one of his working moods.

Making sure thing were as calm as they could be in this town, Steve threw a look over at the Casino & Saloon, listened to the noise of Stark's work, and considered his next moves. In the twilight, people were strolling along the wooden sidewalks where they would not stir up too much dust, and with the sound of one of the few honest men here working, Timely could have fooled even him.

 _My town,_ he thought. _I should admit it. I'm putting down roots._

He listened to the sounds coming from Stark's smithy until he could no longer put off his walk down to the saloon to remind whoever needed reminding that while the government was far away, and the nearest city with a court and judge was a three days ride east even with the train coming in once a week, there was a law in this town.

* * *

The next day the sun was burning down on their little town when Steve walked by the smithy and saw their blacksmith fiddling with the strange automaton he kept in front of the shop. “Stark’s Vision of the Future” the display announced in red, curling letters, but in a drunken stupor, Tony had once explained to Steve that in its broken state it exemplified Tony's future as much as his past. At the time, Tony had been drunk enough that he hadn't been able to stand on his own two feet and his usually clipped East Coast tones had turned into a mumbled lisp, so Steve hadn't paid close attention to what he was saying. The depth of the man's sadness had only sunken in later, after Steve had made sure he wasn't going to spend the night in the street where the wrong people might stumble on him in his defenseless state.

Stark saw his future as broken.

Perhaps that was why Steve walked by now, the question about what had kept Tony from drinking last night lingering at the back of his mind, even though it wasn't any of his business.

Stark didn't look up from where he was crouched in front of the machine when Steve walked closer, though he didn’t conceal his approach, steps loud on the wood of the man's porch.

“Repairing Stark's Vision of the Future?” he asked and watched Tony's head snap up, startled.

“No point. No good automaton. Never did what it was supposed to.”

To his surprise Tony looked wide-awake, _and_ he was sober. That too was a rare thing these days.

“What were you working on yesterday then? Sounded like you worked until late at night?”

It wasn't like him to pry into other people's business when it wasn't something he thought _would_ become his business later. Of course, he had his worries when it came to Stark; the mayor had tried to press Tony into working for him since the man had turned up in Timely. The name Stark stood for the best guns and rifles out west where the best guns and rifles were enough to make any man.

A .58 caliber Model 1862 Stark Rifle had been Steve's trusted companion in the war, saving his life a few times.

Stark nodded towards the anvil on the porch. The sign hanging from the pillar there read “shoeing”. Steve couldn't remember Stark ever actually shoeing a horse, but, of course, that was part of the job description of a town’s blacksmith. And there was a stack of horseshoes, ready to be put away for future use. Steve blinked at the sheer number of them. The perfect half bow of each of them drew his attention. A precise hand had formed these shoes.

A sober hand.

“Are you expecting a number of mustangs to stampede through town today and ask for a free shoeing? Or were you bored?”

Dusting himself off as if his appearance mattered more to him today then it did most days, Stark stood up and considered Steve.

“Yeah, yeah, all the merry horses, all the merry horse owners. Good of you to come by, Steve,” he said, and that stood out, because they weren't _exactly_ friends, “now that I think about it, I have something to give to you.”

He picked up a horseshoe and shoved it into Steve's hands, then put away the ones that were still scattered on the porch.

The piece of formed metal was heavy in his hand and Steve had no clue as to what he was supposed to do with it or why Stark would think to give him one. But then Stark swiped his hands clean with a rug and gestured to the door. It took him a moment to realize that Stark was asking him into his house and the horseshoe he'd been given wasn't whatever Stark wanted to give him.

There was nothing to it, of course.

As sheriff, he got asked to look at all kinds of things, got _handed_ all kinds of things.

But this was the first time he was stepping into Stark’s rooms in the small two storied town house connected to the smithy, noting how the man immediately pulled the door closed behind them. Steve had seen the cluttered and impersonal interior of the smithy a couple of times before Tony Stark had arrived in Timely and for some unfathomable reason stayed. So he wasn’t exactly sure why he had expected that exquisite furniture would have been sent down to make Stark’s home more comfortable. Perhaps the name Stark had fooled him too. The house was still a wooden house with barely two rooms and very little space to go around — just like it had been before. And the main room was still the room of a man who worked with his hands all day: Messy, full of dirty tools and well-used gear.

If there was nice East Coast furniture and wall paper then it must be confined to the small rooms upstairs.

To his surprise, he saw a cot in the corner that was obviously used as a bed.

“You sleep in here?” Which was to say, he had expected Tony to have made his room above if this now served as another workshop.

“Where else would I sleep?” Stark asked absentmindedly and like that didn’t really matter all that much. “That’s why people have houses? To sleep in?”

The table in the corner looked like it hadn’t been used for anything but work in days, and Steve hadn’t seen Stark do much more than drink down at the saloon until the day before. Where did the man take his meals? Was there something to the rumor that he’d stayed in town for a woman? Did his lover feed him?

It didn't seem impossible, but Steve realized that he at least was watching Stark’s exploits at the Casino & Saloon close enough to notice secret affairs if there were any. And he hadn’t noticed Stark being close to anyone. 

He was less surprised to see the bottles. There were bottles lined up along the wall, a number of them on the table, among the tools, and some more standing or lying beside the bed. Some had never been opened, some were empty and others were on a good way to getting there. Stark had a stash and a steady supply.

Too many people had their own theories on why Stark stayed in a border town when clearly he could have picked any place to go. The more Steve saw of his uncontrollable drinking habit, the surer he was that Stark was hiding from himself at the bottom of one of these bottles and in their little hell hole of a town. What he hadn't figured out yet was if the drinking had driven him into hiding, or if he had been running long before that.

“I meant…” Steve started, not sure he wanted to explain that he had expected Stark to be the kind of man who indulged in a very comfortable bed that he spent most of his lazy day in when he wasn’t working or wasting time at the Casino & Saloon. He was kept from voicing the thought when Stark pushed away some tools with a sweeping gesture, letting them fall on the floor with a clattering noise, and pulled a rug from the table to show Steve what was beneath.

Words fled his mind.

Guns were strewn across the work table and bench — some half, some fully assembled.

The sight of an arsenal like this in his powder keg of a town chilled him to the bones. His palms were sweaty suddenly and he found himself at a loss for words.

Stark gestured over half of the table, where different Stark revolver models were lined up, shining and clean. “I used to be fond of the Stark Mark II Model 1863. Pretty accurate aim. But pick whichever you think'll do you the best service.”

Steve's eyes were still focused on the weapons that had been so suddenly put on display, trying to figure out what exactly Stark was showing him here. Was he working for Fisk now? Was he assembling better models? Back at work as a gunsmith?

Then the words sank in.

“What?”

“Pick one.” Stark scratched the side of his throat like he was uncomfortable with the whole conversation. “Pick two if you think you’ll need them. But that’s it. The rest are going the way of the one you’re holding.”

He wasn’t holding a gun. Confused, he looked at his army revolver, strapped to his side, and then his hands.

Belatedly, Steve realized he was still holding the horseshoe.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I’m melting these down tonight. If you think one of these can help you do your work, then for god’s sake pick one, so I can get on with it.” With a slow, catlike grace, Stark moved away and added: “Come on, Steve. Don’t make me regret this.”

“Regret?”

“More than I already am,” Stark added tiredly.

Steve stared at the horseshoe in his hand then back at the lined up revolvers. All of them were marked with the Stark emblem. He had seen some of them up close in the war. Nothing about all this made sense until he looked up and realized that the haunted expression on Stark’s face had nothing at all to do with whiskey spirits and a lost fortune.

It was the haunted look of someone who’d brought evil into the world and wanted it gone again.

“You’re melting them down?”

“Preferably before Fisk sends someone to raid my shack, Rogers. None of his good for nothing henchmen will get this offer. Only you. So pick.”

“But you’re offering me. Why?”

Stark rolled his eyes. “Just say no if you don’t want one.”

Steve looked over the guns, finally taking them in for what they were. This time he actually took note of every single one of them, trying to decide which one would fit into his hand best. There was a matching pair of Colts to the side that he couldn’t place, and they weren’t marked. He’d never seen the model. “What are those?”

“One of a kind,” Stark said through gritted teeth. “Never went into production.”

“Ah,” Steve said and was aware of Stark’s shoulders tensing, when he picked up one of the Colts, weighed it, tested its balance. “I trust that’s not because it’s a bad gun.”

“No,” Stark said and there were ghosts in his eyes and Steve turned to fully meet his gaze and read the expression. “No, too good a gun maybe.”

“All right,” Steve said. “I’ll take your word for it.” He set down the revolver, his other hand still clamped around the horseshoe. “Thank you for the offer, Stark. But I have a pair of working guns and they'll suffice.”

Stark nearly spluttered in indignation, reading the words as the rebuff they both were and weren’t. Before he could say anything or move over to Steve to push the gun back into his hands, Steve roughly clapped the man's shoulder and said: “I’ll take your word on it that you’ll make sure my guns keep working if I need them to, but you’ve made up your mind to melt these down, so melt them down.”

“You don’t…?”

“Oh, I want,” he said. “I don’t want to need them though. Better guns have a way of calling in even better guns. Heard the marksman from Daisy down-river was shot by two outlaws for his reputation and nothing else a mere week ago. Don't need that on top of everything else, do I?”

Stark’s eyes widened and Steve was beginning to see how he was hiding some of the more important truths under the surface he allowed the rest of the town to see. “Yeah, let’s not put that on my conscience. If you get shot, it should be on you and your stubborn head alone.”

While it sounded like an appropriate curse, Steve grinned sardonically. “You seem to carry enough ghosts. I’ll try not to add to them.”

Huffing, Stark said: “This town's going to get you killed. It’s the kind of place that any sensible person should leave. If you choose to stay and do a job that puts a target on your head, that’s not on me.”

“Something to those words,” Steve agreed. “Makes me wonder why _you’re_ staying.”

Stark laughed. “Ah, Sheriff Rogers, no astounding secret there,” he said and gestured towards the table before he took the rug and pulled it over the guns again. “Where better to dwell than among monsters?”

“There are decent people here.” And though he felt the need to point it out, he knew that Stark knew it too. He had seen Stark offer help. He had seen Stark build somewhat of a rapport with Doc Banner.

“And there I have my answer for why you’re out here, Rogers. Very noble. Very likely to get you killed.”

Steve nodded. “Knew that going in. But it’s a job that needs doing. Someone has to.”

They had walked back out together, slowly. Again Steve noticed how carefully Stark made sure nobody got too good a look into his workshop.

“Get rid of them, quick,” Steve said when they were back out on the porch. “But keep the good ones. You’ll need them sooner rather than later if you want to survive.”

The mayor.

The interest in Stark and his business.

Stark's own cautious behavior.

It was clear that, yes, sooner rather than later someone would come for the gunsmith — for his services, for the guns he still owned, for his annoyingly handsome face or his nonchalant way of speaking his mind.

“I thank you for the advice, Sheriff. Much obliged.”

Only now did Steve realize that on his way out Stark had grabbed a bottle and was saluting him with it now.

“And let off that a bit,” Steve suggested although he knew it wouldn't do any good.

Stark met his eyes head-on and took a long swig from the bottle to make his own point in kind. “Ah,” he said as if even the taste of the spirit was freeing him from some heavy sorrow, “wrong day to stop drinking. Not that there’s a good day for it, anyway.”

In the back of his mind, the lingering memory of his father reared its ugly head and Steve was already opening his mouth to protest.

He never got to speak, before someone else said: “There you are, blacksmith. Governor Roxxon sends his regards, Mr. Stark.”

“You can send them right back,” Stark hissed and inclined his head as if in modest greeting. His steel blue eyes had gone cold, though.

Steve looked up to see Mayor Fisk standing only a few feet away in a pristinely kept white suit that hadn’t yet collected any of the rusty-gray dust of the area. It wouldn’t. The likes of Fisk knew how to keep their suits clean to hide the dirt on their hands better.

“Sheriff,” Fisk said and tipped his broad hat towards him in greeting when he noticed Steve. “here on business?”

Steve held up the horseshoe Stark had pushed into his hands before. “Discussing a shoeing.”

The mayor nodded, satisfied with that answer or not bothered enough to ask questions right now.

Together with Stark, Steve watched him leave, wondering why he couldn’t shake the lingering feeling of unease. Then it came to him.

“Governor Roxxon send his regards often?”

From experience, he knew that Tony Stark was a well-mannered gentleman from the East Coast who smelled of the indolent life he must have lead before and could act that way if he chose to. His manners were impeccable right until he was stinking drunk and a thorn in Steve’s side. He _knew_ the man wasn’t drunk now.

Yet Stark spat right into the dirt of the street as if whatever was on his tongue was too vile to be spoken.

Silently he stared into the distance, before he turned to meet Steve’s gaze head-on, and said darkly: “Lots of people do. If you happen to change your mind about my proposition in the next few hours, come knocking. Otherwise, good day, Sheriff. You can keep that one for luck.” He nodded at the horseshoe and with a last and very tense nod, Stark vanished into his workplace, shutting the door behind himself firmly, and the sheriff was left standing out in the sun, alone and holding a lone horseshoe.

 _At least_ , he thought, staring at it, _you have more to ponder on now than just the blasted train coming in. We don't want life to get boring._

* * *

Only three incidents drew his attention the next week before another train's smoke smudged the blue sky dark to the east of Timely.

Out of those, only one stood out to him: Stark getting punched for refusing to join a card game at the Casino & Saloon. Their card sharks preying on the drunkards with money in their pockets wasn't out of the ordinary — and although Steve had suspected for a while that Stark wasn't as well off anymore as the name suggested, people still heard his name and thought, “rich guy.” Someone taking issue with Stark when he was drunk wasn't exactly unusual either. Hell, last time fists had flown in all directions at a card game had been because Stark _hadn't_ refused to play and had instead won the table's worth of money despite his inebriated state.

He'd gone home with a black eye, laughing at the known never-do-wells calling him a cheat.

“Did you cheat?” Steve had asked then.

“Please, Rogers,” a Stark who'd still been swimming up to the gills in cheap whiskey had answered. “Only dullards need to cheat instead of count carefully.”

This fight had stood out though, because Nicholson had gone right for Stark, when Dugan had been ready to turn him out to the street, with a grunted: “you've had enough for tonight, Tony.”

“How about you bet one of them .45s?” Nicholson had asked him, and Steve, who had kept to the side of the bar so as to observe the proceedings in both the casino and saloon, had caught the words over the noise of bad dance music and cheering.

“Over cards?” Stark had asked and blinked, dumbfounded or too drunk to catch the meaning.

“Of course, Stark, over cards.”

“Can't bet what I don't own,” he'd slurred, but even from his vantage point, Steve had seen his eyes narrow dangerously.

Nicholson sure hadn't been fooling around, and knocked Stark one right to the jaw, making his head snap back with a terrible sound.

With two strides Steve was there to catch the next blow before it could connect with Stark's already bruised face. “Enough,” he'd growled.

“The governor knows, Stark, and 'e told Fisk everything,” Nicholson had growled, threat clear in his voice, but he'd backed up. “We know about the way you're collecting what has your name on it. Did you think you could hide here?”

Behind him Stark had chuckled, dangerously low and too serious for a drunk man.

But Nicholson had turned away. “Be warned, gunsmith.”

“ _Black_ smith,” the drunken man had muttered.

Sure that Stark would get himself into even more trouble if he didn't shut up, Steve had helped him to his feet and ushered him out of the saloon to march him down Main Street as if he was the criminal here. He'd brought him to the sheriff's office and urgently dabbed at a cut left on Stark's cheek with a rag doused in alcohol. Stark's pained hiss gave him some grim satisfaction. “You need to be more careful.”

“No, Steve,” and Stark's watery blue eyes had held his, “ _you_ need to stay out of this.”

“What is _this_? The governor? Fisk? Someone pressing for guns?”

“Someone wants me to settle my accounts. Old story. Someone always wants something. Nothing's changed.”

“It didn't sound like just _something_ , Stark.”

“Tony,” he corrected, sounding quietly subdued.

“ _Stark_ , I’m being serious. What's going on?”

There were a hundred things more he wanted to say — about the drinking, the secrets, Stark's past, or the dark smudge of his eyelashes against his pale skin. His tongue already tasted the more familiar name. “Tony.” But he'd long ago decided that this wasn't worth the trouble again for _anyone_ and sure as hell not for a broken blacksmith with a death wish, so he swallowed it down and decided to forget all about it.

“What did you do with the two…?”

“Horseshoes. You didn't want them.”

“I didn't,” he agreed, “but you might've been better served by keeping them and making sure you're able to see straight when you needed them.”

“No use now. Widow Parker's old mare is clapping along with them nicely,” Stark said tartly and resolutely got up from the chair, only swaying a little from left to right. “And nothing I make will ever be used for that again. Make sure you stay out of this. Good day, Sheriff.”

Deciding that the treacherous thought about blue eyes and dark eyelashes were enough danger for one evening, Steve watched him go in silence.

He already knew he wasn't going to stay out of it.

What kind of sheriff would he be if he did?

What kind of man?

* * *

When trouble did finally come into town it rode in on horseback.

Steve was outside, tending to his own red roan and was so focused on getting the dirt of the day out of the horse's coat that he didn’t notice at first. From here — and from his windows — he had a good view of the smithy's backyard and Bucky occasionally teased him about the way he watched the backyards more than the main street.

It wasn't true, of course, but he would be lying if he stated he never watched Stark work. At least when the man used the pronounced muscles in his arms for smithing, he wasn't making trouble up at the Saloon & Casino.

Red neighed and shook his head, his mane flying left and right, getting Steve's attention. That was when he realized that a group of three had stopped their horses in front of the smithy. Suspicious man that he was, he smelled trouble right away and kept an eye on the proceedings.

Stroking Red's neck, he watched Tony step out of the house and onto his porch.

“You're Stark?” the man in the lead asked in an unfriendly tone.

“Who's asking?”

“Never ye' mind,” one of the others spat.

“Are you Stark?”

“What does it say on the sign?” Tony asked and pointed to the sign above the smithy. He sounded impatient, firm and businesslike, and sometimes when he got like this Steve had to wonder what the man had been like before they'd met. He must have been something, that much he was sure of. Right now though, Steve wished that Stark wouldn't confront three drifters who were facing him from horseback, their belts stuffed with .45s, as if they were annoying school boys.

As casually as possible, Steve chanced a look around the horse to get a better grip on who he was dealing with.

“The boss heard from the governor that you were hiding out here.”

“Did he now? The governor, huh? And who's the boss?”

“You know,” the man said and brought his horse a little closer. “Old friend of yours from New York. His daughter was fond of you — until your guns killed her brothers.”

Tony didn't even blink. “Yeah? Lots of daughters were fond of me. And lots of my guns killed lots of brothers across the country. But Nefaria never cared about lives, not even his children’s. His daughter knew that. What does he really want?”

“The boss wants this sorted or...” The stranger made a sign that indicated a beheading or slit throat.

“Quaint,” Stark said and then raised his hands as if he was indicating surrender, instead simply showing, that he was unarmed.

Idiot. A shiver went down Steve's back. “Come on,” he whispered to Red and pulled the reins. The horse fell into an obedient trot beside him. He led it slowly around the corner and onto Main Street where they were in full view of what was happening. Only one of the men on horseback paid them any mind.

“If it's money he wants, tell him to talk to Stane. He got it all.”

“Did he?” The stranger spat right in front of Stark's feet. “Governor thinks you’re still rich enough to compensate.”

“The governor hopes I’ll need money soon because he’s looking for a gunsmith,” Tony muttered. “You’re being played, boys.”

From his vantage point, Steve couldn't see the leader's expression, but he could see another man's face darken under the brim of his dirty black hat. Steve hurried his steps, pulling Red along, closer to the group of men and called: “Hey, blacksmith! About that shoeing!”

Tony turned his head to look at him, his brows knitting together, mouth pinched and eyes narrowed. At least his sense of self-preservation hadn't yet completely failed him, because he didn't turn his back towards the hostile visitors he was receiving today.

“Sheriff,” he said very slowly and gave a passing glance to Red. Steve was very glad to note that his words didn't hold a hint of the sweet purr that sneaked into it just before it turned into a slur. At least Stark wasn’t drunk. “Now? Really?”

“No time to put it off any longer. Don't have the irons to do it today? Or is there something else I should know about? Prior engagement?”

He let his eyes glide over the strangers. Silence hung over the group like a cloud that was threatening the beginnings of a storm. Steve was aware that right now he was the one at a disadvantage. On top of their horses as they were, they wouldn't even have to draw their guns. Trampling him would do the trick.

Showing none of his thoughts, he put his chin up and let the hands not holding the bridle glide to his belt, slide the gray-blue vest he was wearing out of the way to clearly show the gun sticking out of the worn holster. The sun was high and burning his brow. He wished he'd brought a hat, but he'd had no intention to go out and start a fight.

He should have known better.

Stark was still watching him with a stormy face, hovering somewhere between anger and exasperation. Only when faced with it like this did it dawn on Steve how rare these kinds of strong and serious emotions were for Stark. His face, his eyes were always expressive, but never like this.

_He's numbing himself with the drink. He's hiding. I don’t use whiskey, but I do understand what it is to keep the hurt and anger to myself._

It was a bad moment for realizations, but he could feel another piece of the riddle solving itself. Perhaps even the part of it that told him why he was standing here in plain sight of three armed gunmen ready to shoot someone when Stark didn't even want his help.

“Sheriff,” the leader finally said and tipped his hat, pulled his horse around and let it trot towards the Casino & Saloon. His friends hesitated for a moment, before following his example.

Steve watched them go from narrowed eyes, but pulled Red along closer to Stark, keeping to his story. “Can you at least have a look?” he asked loud enough to be heard.

“You're a nuisance,” Stark declared.

“Actually,” Steve said gruffly and led the horse around to the side where Tony had everything he needed in case they really were doing this, “that's your second name.”

“Very funny.”

He watched to his unending astonishment as Tony made the few steps down to the ground, approaching Red as if dealing with horses was something he did every day — and Steve was really unsure he'd ever witnessed a shoeing at this smithy, although, he supposed the horses around here must be taken care of by someone and Stark had implied that some horses around here were clapping around on his special horseshoes. Admittedly, Steve and many others had preferred the old Ben Parker to look at their horses when the time came until he'd died. So until now he hadn't had to worry about Stark's actual ability to do this part of his job. With a sure hand Stark made Red raise his legs, inspected one hoof after the other with a small frown of concentration that suited him well.

By now they were alone. Their audience had ridden off towards the Casino & Saloon.

Stark didn't look up from his work when he said: “Thanks for interfering. But this horse needs no shoe, Sheriff.”

“You're welcome.”

“No,” he said. “I rarely am. And neither are you. Stay out of this.”

He felt his hackles rise faster than a mountain cat could push you off a horse. “Stark!”

“Not up for negotiation, Rogers. My troubles are my own.”

“Right, it's none of my business. I’m just the sheriff around here.”

They left Red standing at the paddock and without an invitation Steve followed Stark back up the porch and towards his house. Stark remained in the door, blocking the entryway. “Stay out of it, Steve,” he said more softly, using his given name as if that would make him give in more easily.

 _He should try batting his eyelashes_ he thought unbidden. _It would distract me fine._

“It's no use getting hurt over a nuisance, Steve.”

“You're a half-decent fellow when you're not drunk,” he spat, annoyed by the stubbornness that mirrored his own.

“Easily fixed,” Stark promised.

“Are you out of your mind? You can't get drunk now!”

Stark put his arm in front of Steve, blocking his way when Steve tried to push through the door along with him. He wanted to talk this out, wanted to make the stubborn man tell him exactly what was going on, make him accept his help...

“Thing about booze is it works whenever and wherever. No right or wrong time for it at all.”

Steve glimpsed an intricate device on the workbench that looked like nothing he'd ever seen and he had no idea what it was for, but tools were still sitting on the table. Stark was working on something. But what? Steve opened his mouth to ask, but Tony, who had followed his gaze, said sourly: “Stay out of it. Good day, Rogers. Don't get shot.”

Once more the wooden door flew shut in his face. “Same to you, you moron,” he whispered and stomped back to fetch his horse.

* * *

A few days later, Stark saddled a horse he must have borrowed with the expertise of an experienced rider, and Steve was surprised. He couldn’t remember one single instant of Stark on a horse.

_He’s a blacksmith. He must know his way around horses at least a little. He did fine with Red. Did you think the guns were the only reason he took the job for?_

He had.

Stark was good with his hands, good at repairing things and when he wasn’t drunk out of his mind he was a smart thinker, someone who found ways to work with what he had. He was the kind of man who managed to surprise you even when you were trying very much to _not_ be surprised — by blue eyes, enticing laughter or sharp wit.

Damn, why did Steve even care?

“Where are _you_ going?”

“Don’t be nosy, Rogers, or you’ll lead me to believe you’re taking an interest.”

“You live in my town. It’s part of my job.”

And there it was, that startlingly piercing blue gaze that just at this moment was all too knowing. “Steve,” Stark said, and he only got familiar when he wanted someone to listen, “we both know that’s not true. Don’t take an interest, please.”

With one smooth movement he swung himself into the saddle.

Steve bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from acting. He was of a mind to just pull the stubborn man back down and throw him into the tiny town jail cell on the made-up ground of drunkenness; he had a bad feeling about this. But _that_ would be taking an interest.

Stark had just warned him about doing that.

Whether it was about painting a target on his back by getting involved in Stark’s affairs or about taking an interest in Stark’s blue eyes and contradictory nature, Steve didn’t know. Both implications were uncomfortable.

Sitting securely in the saddle, Stark pulled the horse around.

“You didn’t tell me,” Steve said and repeated his question, “where you were going.”

“You’re right,” Stark said tight-lipped. “Because it’s none of your goddamn business, Sheriff.”

He stopped his horse right in front of Steve, so that Steve had to look up at him. But Stark pursed his lips, looked away, indecisive. Then he finally turned his gaze to him and said: “Luke Cage asked for help with his plow. Can I go now?”

Feeling like the idiot he rightfully was, he nodded and got out of the street.

He watched Tony ride out and wondered when Cage and Stark had spoken without his knowledge. After all, he'd kept a close watch over Stark and the smithy since Stark had revealed to him that there was an arsenal waiting to be melted down, as the last thing he needed was someone getting wind of that.

“What was that all about?” Bucky stood in the door of the sheriff's office looking at him from under the brim of his sombrero.

“He’s trouble.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed and chuckled, his eyes twinkling with the same kind of knowledge Steve thought he’d seen in Stark’s just moments ago. “Didn’t look like _he_ was trying to make trouble though.”

Steve didn’t reply. If there indeed was no trouble for once then he’d put up his legs and relax with a book at his desk. Bucky, still grinning, got out of his way and watched him take up his place.

“We should be on guard around trouble of that kind,” Bucky said and smiled his very own romancing smile which Steve knew meant he was thinking of his spitfire of a wife, “but we never learn, do we?”

Steve huffed. He wasn’t going to concede the point.

There was no romancing where men like Stark and him were concerned. Out here people might care less about what two men got up to if they kept it private, but Steve had his doubts that anything would be easy where someone like Stark was concerned.

Steve simply wasn’t considering it.

With some effort he pulled his eyes away from the street and tried to read.

* * *

The three strangers stayed in town. Both he and Bucky had a bad feeling about it.

“I saw them meet up with two of Fisk’s boys,” Bucky warned when he stepped back into the office. “They’re planning somethin’ and it ain’t no good.”

Steve didn’t need that kind of confirmation for what his gut had been telling him all along. “They’re after Stark.”

“We knew with his reputation someone would make a move sooner or later.”

“True,” he said. And it was. But when he’d first had the feeling that this kind of thing would happen he hadn’t actually known Stark. He couldn’t claim a close acquaintance now either, but he knew he had seen glimpses of the man behind the world-weary and downtrodden exterior and he couldn’t claim that he hadn’t taken an interest of _some_ kind.

“He didn’t visit Cage and his family, by the way,” Bucky said casually. Cage was a tall black burly man who had recently brought a beautiful wife from a visit to the next biggest town — white, tough and in the same kind of trouble Steve was getting used to seeing around here. It had stirred up rumors and dissent in the town, and the young family was keeping to their farm, where Steve and Bucky visited them every once in a while to see if everything was in order.

“Stark?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said.

“Where did he go then?”

“Little Parker kid claims he saw him ride out east to the territories.”

“What would he want there?”

“Besides getting killed? Not like settlers are the most welcome over there these days.”

Besides getting killed. He’d wondered about that before. “Who knows with Stark. He might have ridden out gotten drunk and slept the night out waiting for coyotes to eat him.”

Bucky looked at him sharply. “Don’t sound bitter, Steve. We all patch ourselves up best we can, ain’t that right?”

Those who had fought in the war did.

He nodded, taking Bucky’s meaning. Stark hadn’t been a soldier, but he had seen the destruction he’d helped bring over whole states of this great nation.

“What do we do then? Sit back and watch? Wait for him to come to us?” Bucky tried not to grin.

“He won’t come,” Steve predicted.

“Yeah, because he’s stubborn like you.”

For the rest of the day, Steve took up watch by the window, on his porch, made his rounds. Two men got in a brawl in the Casino & Saloon, but apart from that everything stayed quiet.

Stark himself didn’t leave his workshop. Steve could occasionally hear rummaging noises and the sound of a hammer hitting down on metal on the anvil.

“You don’t think he’s making any more shoes? Does Timely have that many horses?” Bucky had asked when he heard the sounds drifting over right before he headed home to his sweet Natasha.

If Stark was making any more horseshoes under the current circumstances, then Steve had to worry about why the metal hadn’t been used before someone came looking for guns.

* * *

He fell asleep at his desk sometime after dark, and knew not what woke him, but his first instinct was to get up and look out the window. No light was falling from any of the windows he could see close by. A pitch black darkness had settled over this part of town, away from the Casino & Saloon. Steve could still hear the music drifting in if he leaned closer to the window pane.

For a while he stood there, not sure what he was looking for. All he could see was the dark backyard of Stark's place. But he couldn't look away. With a terrible certainty of foreboding that the kind of trouble Tony had been courting for a while was already hiding in the dark ready to pounce. Steve even pondered going over to make sure Stark was still there alive and breathing. Who knew what cutthroats had been sent here to deal with him? What if one day they just found him dead in his workshop?

Against all hope, he still wanted to believe that the stupid, stubborn man had kept one of his famed weapons to defend himself if it came to that. Stark wasn’t stupid, but Steve knew he wasn't concerned with self-preservation.

If Stark was to be safe in this town someone else would have to take it upon themselves to ensure his safety.

A movement in the darkness caught his eye just as he was about to turn away. He remained in the shadow, leaning against the window frame to keep at least a little out of sight, and stared right into the blackness of night.

Nothing.

Then — there, someone was moving.

A man.

Someone was sneaking around in the dark around the smithy.

Something glowed. A very small flame?

Someone was smoking.

Steve thought he recognized the peculiar shape of the hat, even though he could barely make out the shape of the figure. He had seen it among the group that had threatened Stark in the street.

There were at least two men moving in the dark, but Steve wasn’t sure how to reloably count the shapes. It might be the same group of four riders — or they had doubled their numbers and were striking now because of it. It was a group against one man though. Uneasy, shaking of lingering thoughts of leaving this alone, Steve picked up his Colts and strapped the leather holster around his hips. “Sorry, Stark,” he said to the empty dark room, “seems it’s going to be my business after all.”

He wished he’d told Bucky to stay and watch the smithy with him, but there was really nothing he could do about that now. He used the back door to let himself out of the sheriff’s office. He skirted around to the Main Street in total darkness. He could smell the horses over at the stable and he could see Red stick his head out to look at what was going on as he approached.

“Easy, partner,” he whispered when he walked past him. “You take your rest.”

He kept low to the ground when he got closer to the open.

The stabled horses were whinnying nervously. Steve hoped that wouldn’t draw attention, but in the next moment he realized that it wasn’t his presence that was making them nervous, but the smell of smoke.

Fire.

Not the small glimmer from someone smoking in the dark but a real fire.

He realized the shine of it was coming from the front of Stark's shop — which meant it was coming from Main Street.

Time was becoming a commodity, then.

He used the cover of darkness to sprint across the open space between houses. He didn’t want to risk meeting the strangers who he feared might be after Stark’s life tonight, so he kept off the main street, skirting to the side of the Starne's Savings & Loans to edge forward and get a better look at what was going on.

“Don’t run,” a quiet voice said and he nearly jumped out of his skin. “You’ll walk right into Turk on that side.”

Steve stopped in his tracks. “Doc?”

There in the dark Banner was leaning against the wooden walls of the Savings & Loans. “I heard the ruckus behind Stark Enterprises.”

Steve sometimes forgot that this was the pretentious name over the smithy, even though Stark had never shown any interest in being anything but a drunk blacksmith in their little town. Most people only referred to it as “Stark's” or “the smithy”.

Banner must have skirted across the street too from his own place when he'd realized something was going down. He slept above the apothecary, which was across from Stark's place. From there he would have only had to glance out the window to see what was going on.

“How many?”

“Can’t say. Hard to tell in the darkness. What did Tony do? Did he play cards again? I told him he shouldn't win too often...”

“Nothing he's done recently,” Steve guessed. “This is about something that goes way back.”

“Are you sure? I saw Turk sneaking about back there. I'm sure it was him.”

Banner pointed and Steve had a feeling he knew why the timid man hadn’t yet made a step to alert Stark.

“Stark awake?” he whispered.

“I didn’t dare go out in the open without anything to protect myself,” Banner admitted. “I wanted to check the backyard and if I couldn't get there I was about to go over to the school house and ring the bell real loudly.”

Doc Banner was one of the people here who went through their day by keeping their head down, who helped when he could, but who rarely went out of his way to get into trouble. Steve knew he and Stark talked a lot on grounds of being neighbors, but he hadn’t noticed them being particularly friendly beyond that. Of course a fire set to the smithy had the potential to burn down the whole town and it seemed Banner wasn't that much of a coward.

Steve grinned. “Smart,” he said. “Might still be a good idea for you to do just that.”

“What are you going to do?”

He gripped his Colt tighter and got himself into position to look around the corner. The back porch of the smithy was ablaze. “Make sure Stark gets out of there alive if possible,” he muttered.

Banner nodded. In the dim light of the fire his countenance looked a pale green. “All right. Do you want me…?”

“Doc,” Steve said, “wake Barnes. Send him my way. Ring that bell after, will you?”

With a hint of relief, Banner nodded his head and went.

And Steve realized he needed a new tactic.

He couldn’t get inside from the front if people were waiting for Stark on the main street and he'd been alerted to this situation because he'd seen shadows moving around the smithy's backyard when he'd looked out his window. It was likely that these “shadows” were still there.

Even from his vantage point Steve could see that the fire was by now high enough to light up the street.

As if they’d waited for Steve to come to this conclusion, someone placed himself right in the middle of the street and shouted Stark’s name loudly. It was one of the three strangers and he was holding gun pointed right at the door. And then again: “Stark, you coward, come out.”

Nothing stirred in the smithy.

_He might be unconscious, stupid careless drunkard that he is._

“He’s not in there,” someone shouted from the back. “Nobody’s coming out.”

“He will soon if he doesn't want to burn.”

Two men were standing in the street. The wood of the porch was burning and the smell of lamp oil was hanging heavy in the air.

He crouched down to stay out of sight of the men in the street.

“Come out, Stark,” the leader of the small group shouted from somewhere. Steve couldn’t see him, so he deduced that they wanted Stark to come out the back where the rest of them where waiting. They were trying to smoke him out.

He gave himself a moment to lean against the side of the Loans & Savings to think it through. Two men in the street. How many in the backyard? He needed to check.

Pushing himself into motion while carefully keeping out of sight, he made his way around again and dove for cover. From his new vantage point Steve could see what was going on.

Behind the smithy there were three of them. One Steve recognized as one of the strangers from before, one was Turk and another Steve had never seen. They were finally joined by another, because the front door no longer needed to be watched closely.

“What if he has them guns in there?”

“He’s still just a drunkard with a gun then.”

But Steve knew that the man who’d asked the question was thinking of another gun Stark’s name had come to be known for. He had seen the devastating result of its use. There were no survivors where this thing hit — but he also knew there was no such monster in Timely. And even if there were guns in there... He had the bad feeling that Stark wouldn’t be willing to touch a shooting iron.

_What do I do now? No way to get in there but through the entrance that’s on fire, so better to take my chances with these three?_

He thought it over.

Windows.

Was Stark even in there? How was Steve to know without checking?

“Stark?” the would-be murderer called from the yard.

There was a muffled reply and suddenly everyone was silent.

“Goddamnit,” Steve muttered and sprinted back to the front of the building. What was Stark thinking? At this stage these thugs might have been easily convinced that nobody was inside the house. He rounded the corner and was right in time to hear the breaking of glass followed by a gunshot. He couldn’t see what had happened, though; had Stark finally made a move to protect himself or had someone made a move on the blacksmith?

By now the fire had taken over most of the porch. Steve sprinted past the horse trough. There was nobody here, but people were gathering in front of the Casino & Saloon. And now, finally, he could hear the bell sound the alarm. A few more minutes and there might be help. A few more minutes and all of Fisk’s men might be here making it worse.

Thinking on his feet, he loosely holstered his Colt used himself completely in the brackish water of the trough. Wet, he sprinted onward.

A loud crash came suddenly from the back of the porch, and he feared someone was breaking down the door.

He ran through the fire on the porch and leveled himself at the door once, twice, calling: “Stark!” at the top his his lungs. He was making himself a target, but the fire was his true enemy now. The heat was searing and he feared he would have to stop and save himself, when the door gave at last.

Only when he stumbled into the burning smithy did he realize that Stark was standing there, looking disgruntled, a bucket in his hands that he emptied right over Steve like he needed to cool down. “Who do you think you are? A fucking fire sprite? Your damn shirt is singed, you idiot.”

Stark threw the door shut as if he was keeping the morning sun out.

Steve looked at him incredulously. He clearly wasn't in some drunken stupor. So why hadn’t he fled?

His surprise mounting, he realized that the automaton that usually sat on the front porch to attract customers had been shoved into a corner of the work space as if Stark had decided it was no longer safe for "his future" to stand outside.

Had he known?

Had he prepared for this?

“Did you…?” he started.

“And out in the open, too. Everyone could have taken a shot at you, Rogers! What do you think you’re doing? Are you out of your mind?”

The heat in the house was unbearable already. There was sweat on Stark’s brow, but he looked livid.

“Me? What am I doing? This house is burning down around you!” Smoke was getting into his eyes, making them water.

“I noticed.”

“Stark! You fucking coward, come out!” Turk shouted and Steve was angry enough to pull his Colt to shoot someone, and he didn't care who.

“Fucking come in if you dare!” Stark shouted back and then told Steve: “You stay right behind me.” He wasn’t just treating Steve like he hadn’t come in here to save his hide, but like _Steve_ was the damsel in distress here.

“Tony,” he muttered, trying to get him to see reason. “We need to get out…”

“You can go the same way you came in if you’re in hurry,” Stark said, but he sounded less angry than before and less like he meant it. He was covered with thick brown and black leather. He wasn't just wearing the apron, but heavy gloves and added pieces of leather that were wrapped around his arms, legs and torso. “You’re such an idiot. I have this all sorted out.”

“It doesn’t look that way!” But perhaps it did? Had Tony wrapped himself up to chance a run through the fire?

A gunshot rang out and they both ducked at the same time as a bullet flew through a back-facing window, glass spattering into the searing hot room.

The smoke and heat made him cough. “Stark... Tony, you have to be reasonable...”

“There's no way out without a fight,” Stark explained and he sounded terribly reasonable.

_Not drunk?_

It was hard to tell sometimes.

Stark was only half crouched down. There was another bucket with water at his feet and Steve, wet but no longer dripping as badly with the heat of the fire around him, wondered if he'd gotten in the way of Stark's escape. The man doused a cloth in the water and shoved it at Steve.

“Breathe through it,” he said and then grabbed one for himself.

For the first time, Steve got a good look at him. As he'd noticed before, Tony had covered up extensively, but there was also something strapped to his hand, made from metal. He was holding himself strangely. Had he been hurt already?

There was no time to ask now. They had to get out first. “Do you have any guns left?”

“Why? Come to pick one up now?” Stark asked him, his voice biting.

“This isn't the right moment to argue,” Steve told him. “I came to drag you out of here, and I will...”

“Alright, help me then,” Stark said. He grabbed something from the workbench and held it up. It was a slightly bent piece of metal with some leather straps to fasten it around his chest.

“You’re not going out there!”

“You just told me we need to get out of here, Steve. So which one is it?”

Sweat was forming on Stark’s brow. The heat was unbearable. Part of the room was in flames already. Outside, voices were calling for help. People were gathering.

Bucky must be somewhere out there. Banner.

“Steve! Three on this side!” It was Bucky, calling his name giving them a warning.

A shot was fired.

At Bucky?

“Was that your plan?” Stark asked. “To involve the whole town?”

“Fire,” Steve pointed out. “The whole town's involved.”

“If you don’t come out we’ll set fire to the rest of the house,” someone threatened from the yard and the only thing that kept Steve from worrying was Stark’s calm countenance while he started to strap the metal to his chest.

“We’ll let them in and get you out. They think they want what’s in here and they can have it.”

“I’ll get you out. What are you even talking about? Stark, what the hell is all this?” The metal pieces that were wrapped about the man’s arm looked strange, like a second hand forming skeleton-like around the flesh. “Pick up a gun and we’ll fight our way out together.”

“You know how to sweet talk a man, Sheriff. But I won’t. I have this.”

There were tin cords running from the arm to a small square box that Steve now realized was strapped to Stark’s hip. “You’re crazy… What…?”

“Coming from a man who ran into a burning building surrounded by armed gunmen, that sure sounds like one hell of a compliment.”

Steve saw a shadow moving in front of one of the back windows. Next thing, shots rang out, Stark grunted, then shoved him out of the way so that Steve fell backwards against the workbench with Stark right on top of him. The heavy iron plate pressed hard into Steve's chest. Stark wheezed.

“Bastard,” he muttered and pushed himself back up. He looked pained, and Steve thought it was from the fall until he saw Stark touch his shoulder.

“Were you shot?”

“No,” he replied and let Steve help him sit up. “Grazed.”

“That’s it,” Steve announced. “We’re taking them by surprise. My deputy is somewhere around there.” He pointed toward the entrance he'd burst through and then at the backyard. “But we’ll take the ones on this side first.”

Stark pushed himself all the way up and said: “I was about to.” He sounded angry again but didn’t indicate the severity of the injury, and with the dark leather in the dim light, it was hard to tell how bad it was.

“Can you…?” Steve started.

“You,” Stark ordered and there was really no mistaking the anger anymore, “take the window. This is my house, I give the orders.” Muttering something about stubborn mules he moved towards a window that was right next to the back door.

Steve knew they were running out of time and took his place by the indicated window from where he too could look into the yard. A bullet cut clean through the wooden door and another flew past his head. He pointed his Colt and sent a few shots out himself without taking aim, just to buy Stark time to get into position, even though he had no idea what the man was planning to do.

He didn’t see what he was doing, too focused on the outside, the moving shadows and the bullets that were now flying in his direction. Then a crash got his attention and he nearly blanched when he realized that Stark had pulled open the door, standing there like the perfect target. Stark pointed his arm, and a crash sounded. And with the crash Stark was pushed back, flying hard into a table inside the room that gave under the weight and broke apart, but outside Steve could hear confused screams.

“What did you do?” he asked, his back against the wall staring at the heap of wood, leather, metal and man.

There was no time for Stark to answer, because someone was inside the open door immediately, pointing a gun at Stark. Steve fired his own gun in the general direction and the next thing he knew Stark had raised his other arm and a fountain of fire sprang like magic from his hand, setting their attacker's jacket ablaze.

The man jumped out the door swearing and screaming loudly about the devil, and there was a sudden ruckus outside.

Steve stared. Blinked. Rubbed his eyes.

He couldn’t believe it.

The leather covering all of Stark’s hand was still smoking. But that wasn't what had him frozen in fearful suspension: A terrifying iron mask covered Tony's face and it looked like the crying face of a badly put together ghost.

“Don’t look flabbergasted. Not a good look on you,” Stark told him from where he was lying on his back like an oversized turtle gasping with pain — no longer a monster that had stepped from his nightmares, but an injured and exhausted human being. The mask clattered to the floor and Stark's face twisted in pain. “This time he got me in the leg, that bastard. Should have armored up completely.”

Another shape appeared in the door and his Colt was in his hand before he had realized he'd drawn it again, but it was the friendly face of James Barnes. “Gents? You might want to come out of there before you suffocate or burn.”

Still not trusting the sudden turn of events, Steve gathered himself up and said: “So I get to carry you out, after all, Tony?”

“If you don’t mind,” Stark said from amid the remains of his table, pulling the terrifyingly crafted mask up from the floor to hold it up as if he was inspecting it. He looked terrible, sweaty and pale.

“I don't mind.”

From the porch they could hear the splashing sounds of buckets being emptied into the fire.

 _It might be too late to save the house_ , Steve thought while he loosened the straps on the heavy metal plate and Stark loosened the straps holding the contraption on his arm, _but Timely will still have its crazy son of a gun blacksmith._

That was more important.

By the time he half carried Tony from the house, the man was white as a sheet. The place was still burning, but the flames had been doused with water to the point where it didn’t look so bad anymore. At least the house still stood. The porch was black and would need some work though.

“Bring him here,” Doc Banner called to them. He too looked white in the face, as if he’d gone through the ordeal alongside the two of them.

“We’ll take care of this,” Bucky told Steve with a nod towards the smithy.

Stark was leaning heavily on his shoulder. “Sorry for all the trouble,” he muttered, uncharacteristically demure, while Steve dragged him across the street to Banner’s store. By the looks of it, he was too hurt and too exhausted to even ask about his house and livelihood.

* * *

The smithy still stood.

But for the next couple of weeks Stark would have trouble doing the same. For the first hours after the incident, he even had trouble staying awake. Fever gripped him. Nightmares pulled him under. Steve expected to return to Banner’s place and find the man had just left them while they both slept.

Steve was present every time the bandages were changed and helped where he could.

“You're good at this,” Banner remarked.

“Not the first gunshot wound I've seen.”

“War?”

Steve nodded. He didn't like to talk about it. He'd returned a hero, but surviving had never felt all that heroic to him. What did it matter now that he'd been in the war, that he’d wanted nothing more than a patch of land that he could work, where he could build something with his own two hands and live out his days in peace and quiet? He was here instead, wasn’t he?

They found more wounds when they tried to get the rest of Stark’s strange leather gear off. At some point, before Steve had joined him in his fight he must have burned his arm. The shirt was sticking to the blistered wound.

Banner hissed. “That must have hurt. Looks worse than the shot. That at least went clean through.”

They had to pull patches of fabric from the flesh and Steve nearly gagged when some of the blisters broke.

“What did he do?” Banner asked and stared at Steve as if he held all the answers.

“Hell if I know,” Steve muttered. “Must have tried to get out of the burning house.” Although he knew that in all likelihood Stark had burned himself while he’d built the weapon Steve had seen him use; the one that had done damage, but hadn’t killed. Was it his place to reveal a secret like that?

He bit his lip and kept silent.

“Looks strange,” Banner commented and Steve wasn’t sure he had anything to add to that. It looked like some of the metal and cords he’d seen around Tony’s arm had cut into the flesh and made the wound worse.

He would have to go back to the smithy and make sure nobody found anything to scavenge – if Bucky hadn't already. Steve was waiting to hear from him.

Later.

For now he felt like someone needed to be here — someone in this town needed to have the blacksmith’s back and there weren’t too many people out here Stark seemed to trust, with good reason.

_He let you in, despite working on whatever it was he was working on. What does that mean?_

They cut part of the shirt sleeves away and Steve promised to bring by a new shirt later if there was one that wasn’t completely burned. It was when Banner tried to get the shirt open to douse Stark with some cool water when they realized the fresh wounds on his lower arms weren’t the only marks Stark carried around. His chest was marked with a cluster of scars.

A whistle escaped Banner, loud in the room where the silence so far had been filled mostly by Stark’s labored breathing. “Someone got him good before. That got close to the heart. Lucky man.”

Lucky. Steve wasn't sure that was the word springing to mind. He could only ask himself: _How did he survive that?_

He waited until Banner was out of sight before he allowed himself a small touch, let his fingers glide over the uneven, rough patches of skin. A bullet wound. One that had been meant to kill.

Guiltily he pulled away when he heard Banner move back into the room.

He had no place doing any of this; touching, caressing.

When Stark tossed and turned, murmuring names Steve had never heard before, pleading with a father who wasn’t there or for lives that had already been taken, it felt like they were privy to more than a lonely man’s feverish dreams. He turned his eyes on Banner.

“It’s infected? Will he live?”

“Despite my best attempts at keeping it clean,” he admitted. “I’m not a real doc, you know. More like a self-taught quack. Why do you think I’m out here and not in one of the cities?”

“Opportunity,” Steve suggested. It wasn’t like there was another doc around who’d be competition. And he knew that Banner had made his name around here with his skills, even though he seemed to think so little of them.

“In the beginning, maybe. But nobody stays here for opportunities.” Banner shrugged.

For the second night in a row, Steve slept in an armchair by Stark’s bedside, dousing a cloth in water now and again and lathering Stark like Banner had instructed to make sure the fever wouldn’t win the fight.

“You live too close to death,” he told the unconscious man when he took up the spot beside his bed. “One day I want to know the whole story.”

“Yes, mother,” Stark croaked and one tired blue eye peered up at him, the other remaining firmly closed.

“You’re awake?”

“God, I hope not,” Stark groaned. “What happened? Did we get them?”

“Drove them out of town; don’t think we’ll see them again. Not the drifters anyway.”

Stark didn’t look convinced, but right now he also looked like death warmed over so it didn't matter all that much. They would face whatever was in store for them when it came up.

“The whole story,” Steve warned. “I think I've earned my right to hear it. What was that thing you used? Why do they throw around the name of the governor like you mean something to him?”

Tony was staring at the ceiling with only half-open eyes. “Ah, yes. The governor. Knew him back in New York. Tried to buy me out twice. I never sold. Let the company just fall into ruin. Let the vultures pick apart the rest. Don’t want anyone to use my name for more death.”

“Yeah, I got that part.”

It looked like Tony was falling back asleep. “Never figured out if that lucky shot that nearly killed me was just lucky. Left New York right after. Surely the governor could tell me.”

Steve moved uncomfortably in his chair. He kept telling himself it was none of his business, but maybe it was.

Stark’s head rolled to the side and his eyes opened just a slit; he was still breathing heavily. His blue eyes were a shade darker with the pain. “None of your business,” he said, seeming to disagree with the conclusion Steve had just come to. Steve thought he had already fallen asleep when he added: “You’re a good man.”

Then he finally drifted off; his breathing turned quiet.

Sitting at the bedside, Steve was left with more questions than answers still, but did any of them even matter that much? “With all the metal you wore, you still left yourself open to lucky shots. Let’s make sure that after using that crazy device to end the fight, you won't die on a sick bed. ”

 _Maybe_ , he thought to himself, _Stark has a point. You shouldn't care. But it’s too late to stop any of this._

He only needed to remember how angry Stark had been about Steve getting involved to realize Stark had been more worried about Steve’s safety than his own.

 _Yeah,_ he thought. _Way too late. I already care. And perhaps so does he._

* * *

“This,” Stark said, “is the idea of a loon.”

He was propped up in Steve’s bed and for the last few days Steve had slept on his own slightly too narrow settee and visited Stark at his bedside whenever Timely allowed for her sheriff to have a bit of downtime.

“It was my idea. And Banner agreed. Not like you can go back and sleep in your home as it is right now.”

“Idea of a loon,” Stark repeated. For an hour he had complained that Steve should give him a stiff drink so he wouldn’t feel the pain as badly. Of course, he had ignored all such requests.

“Your wound's infected. Someone needs to keep a close eye on you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stark chanted, apparently drifting back into his restless slumber. He was still showing an acute disinterest in his well being.

But over the past few days Steve had listened to feverish ramblings and learned a bit more about a man fighting his very real ghosts when he wasn’t drowning his sorrows. He suspected more than he knew, but he already knew too much about Stark and his nightmares, and about the enemies, like Roxxon, who had led him here, to fall for his annoying facade as easily as he had before.

Even though the man _was_ annoying a lot of the time, Steve could recognize it as one of the many masks he carried.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve mimicked. “You should rather be glad I let you sleep there. Enough room in the cell.”

Steve settled down in his chair and watched Stark close his eyes. He felt lighter, knowing the man was well enough now to recover.

“You’re a good man, Rogers,” Stark mumbled. “Too good for this place. It'll get you killed.”

One day Steve would explain to Stark that Timely was a good town and deserved better. That nothing would change if nobody made a stand. There were good people here — and Stark was one of them.

Sheriff Rogers stayed for all of them.

Perhaps for some more than others, but that was a story he'd keep to himself.

* * *

Time passed.

Stark went back to his newly rebuilt smithy that rarely saw horses when it hadn’t also seen a crate of smuggled guns brought in to be melted down. Steve came by now sometimes to look at all the things Stark was building when he wasn’t just idly making horseshoes. Over the months he learned a bit more about Tony Stark and his connections to the reservation, to the people who had saved his life when someone had taken a likely premeditated shot at him with his own Stark revolver.

Steve never actually considered leaving after the fire at the smithy and the revelations it had brought about Stark, no longer pursued the thought of finding a piece of land and settling down.

Not once, until he found himself standing beside the grave of his best friend, watching Bucky's beautiful widow lay down fresh flowers.

Why was he staying now? What was holding him here?

He sat on his porch that evening, pondering the citizens of Timely. He watched Banner clean his porch as if nothing had happened, watched the saloon girls dance and everyone else go about their business.

Why was he staying?

In the end he watched day turn into evening with ever moving from his place on the porch.

Stark walked up to him, sat down a bottle of whiskey between them and said: “Good people always die around here.”

“They do everywhere,” Steve said and took a swig of the auburn liquid without offering thanks. Then he handed the bottle back.

Stark nodded, understanding the meaning of his words too well.

 _That’s why we’re here_ , Steve thought. _Both of us. That’s why we’re here and why we don’t leave_.

He gave Stark a sideways glance. The man wasn’t looking at him, but watching the street. Steve carefully extracted the bottle from his grasp and Stark startled, looked at their fingers where they had touched and then watched Steve as he took another swig.

“You won’t get that back,” Steve said, voice hoarse.

“More where it came from,” Stark said and Steve was lost too far in his grief to tell if Tony was trying to be helpful or a nuisance.

Steve would stay in Timely.

And he remembered why.

Wouldn’t do to leave Stark out here fending for himself.

He took another swig from the bottle but swore to himself he wouldn’t finish the rest. Timely could use at least one good man who didn’t drown his sorrows every night.

That much he owed Bucky, too.

* * *

Not long after the funeral when Pym left and the Richards family set out to seek for a home further west, they reached the point Steve had dreaded. More good people left than arrived. After what had happened to Bucky nobody needed to warn him to watch his back. Whatever the evidence about Bucky's death was pointing to, Steve knew — and had known all along — that he needed to be careful in town if he didn’t want to end up like previous sheriffs had because the danger wasn't coming from the reservation. It was watching him from the mayor's window every day.

But he was still himself. He knew he couldn’t and never would walk away from that.

Sara Rogers hadn't brought a coward into this world and Steve wouldn't leave the world behind as one either. And that meant standing between the mob and Red Wolf. It meant making sure justice was served even out here h lawlessness had become a way of life that paid off.

Sheriff Rogers had had enough.

Fury's warnings rang loud in his ears: _“Don't go with high plans for bringing order into lawless country, Rogers. Ne'er what that's like. Ya'll do a job. Ya won' get paid much. And at the end of the day whoever bears a grudge gets to take a shot at ye. They only have to aim for the shiny tin star target the town puts on you. Keep that in mind.”_

“Dog's job,” he muttered. “But someone has to bring law to the lawless.”

Someone had to make sure that every citizen had the chance to get a fair trial before the mob took justice into their own hands and polluted it with blind rage and no sense for principles.

“Stupid white man,” Red Wolf muttered in his cell, face unreadable. “Justice needs the howl of a wolf, not a dog's bark. Remember that.”

Their eyes met across the room and Steve decided to ignore the comment.

He had enough trouble just surviving here. Without wanting to, his eyes wandered to the window and Stark's place.

Enough trouble all around.

But at least some of it was worth it occasionally.

_Not that Tony thanks you for pulling him away from the bottle or out of fist fights._

_Thankless job._

* * *

In the course of two hours, Stark's warning saved his life twice.

“Oh Danny Boy?” he asked after he surveyed Stark's handiwork. At least one of the group of thugs lay in a puddle of water, knocked out.

“Worked,” Stark said smugly and took another swig from an inconspicuous hip flask he’d integrated into his previously much more useful design.

“You’ll be the death of me. Get it together. Why do you even need to hide that hip flask if everyone knows you’re a drunk?” he asked harshly.

Stark frowned. It was scary when his watery eyes turned serious. “I know.”

“That you’re a drunk?”

“That I’ll be the death of everyone around me if I’m not careful.”

Just now he had been about to berate Stark about the need to take up a gun today, to stay sober. Now his own mouth clamped shut. He remembered his poor mother, soldiers he'd fought with, Bucky’s funeral, his own regrets, remembered Stark lying in a bed across the street, feverish and muttering about ghosts from the past. People were always dying around Steve, but Stark had pulled through.

“You have a way of throwing me off my game,” Steve said quietly. There were emotions fighting to break loose inside of him that until now he’d kept from escaping. This wasn’t the time for that kind of talk. “Do me a favor?” he asked earnestly. “I lost my deputy — _my best friend_ — to all this. I’m alone in this. And you saved my life by singing a silly song. For one day? Can you not get drunk? Have my back like you just did, Tony?”

He didn’t think he’d ever seen Stark’s face go as white as a sheet before. Whatever he had said, it had hit Stark somewhere where it hurt more than the two gunshot wounds. Quietly, no slur in his words, he said: “Alright, _Steve_. I’ll try and not let you kill yourself. For one day.”

With a sour expression he showed Steve the arm contraption and let it push the bottle into his hand, so he could take a swig.

Steve’s face turned dark immediately.

“Here’s to you,” Tony said and then emptied the contents on the floor. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Only now did Steve realize that he had made the man promise him something dangerous. Tony was already on the bad side of most of the town’s vermin. Did he really want to get him into any more trouble?

“No singing,” he said finally, “and no drink.”

“Now, Steve, don’t be demanding. You’re not my mistress.”

Steve knew nothing about a lady in Tony’s life. He knew he was on first name basis with all the women who worked at the Casino & Saloon though. And at least for a time maybe he’d been fond of Emma — or Emma had found a man in Tony that she could push around hard enough for her own liking. But that had stopped pretty early on and Emma had left town some time ago.

“No,” Steve admitted and realized too late that a terrible hint of disappointment had tried to resonate from the word. He hoped he’d caught it in time.

The sudden brightness in Tony’s slightly red-rimmed eyes made him wonder. “No more pine boxes,” Tony whispered. “Got it.”

* * *

They came.

Just like he knew they’d come. Not just their usual gunslingers. Backup. Sent by the governor.

All of them were out for blood.

And Steve had had enough. He wouldn’t let anyone take Red Wolf’s life before a judge had his say. Not without a fight.

The dam was a crime all its own, and the suspicions about all the cruel ways Fisk was using Timely to press more money from the land for himself and the governor had served to make him angry for too long a time.

He was done.

The town needed to learn to fight back or nothing would be left.

He’d stood by when the machinations of Fisk had poisoned the town more and more. He hadn’t been there to save his back friend and stop his lovely wife from becoming a widow.

He was done hiding behind the complacency of not having proof of the things everyone in Timely _knew_.

With some close calls and some maneuvering, he had Lester where he wanted him. And it felt right.

His anger was finally breaking loose.

He shot the gunman with the mechanical gun arms and felt no mercy.

“Fisk,” he shouted, calling his ultimatum up towards the windows of the mayor’s rooms, “come on down. You’re under arrest for obstructing justice. No man is above the law!”

Not even Fisk could deny it now. The gunmen were here for one reason only: because Red Wolf’s testimony could bring him down.

He called to them.

Addressed this town that had perhaps had cost him more than it had given him.

Tony didn’t step from his house, he noticed with a pang of disappointment, as doors opened and people looked at him as he called to their consciences, their guts, their need for freedom and peace.

“Take back Timely with me!”

He was still calling to all of them when he noticed Grizzly and Red Wolf, realized their best chance for a testimony was about to die. Without thinking he took aim and pulled the trigger, killing Grizzly with a perfectly aimed shot.

“I’m glad you called everyone out,” Lester said, and Steve had no time to turn.

“Look out,” someone shouted. A body tackled him to the ground, but he felt the impact and hellish pain where a bullet tore through his flesh, the sound startlingly loud, before he hit the ground face-forward heavily.

“You bastard!” It was Tony above him, who had shoved him — heavy and clad in parts of metal again. “Step away, Lester.”

“No need to fight for a dead man, Stark,” Steve heard the gunman reply. “Better ways to die.”

He tried to get air into his lungs, tried to look up, but he could only get a glimpse of Tony's outstretched arm and the metal covering it whole.

The pain was bad and his life was bleeding out. He could feel the blood seeping into the dirt of the street.

 _Bucky, old partner,_ , he thought, _I'm sorry. I'll join you soon._

And darkness threatened to take him, even as more bullets started to fly.

* * *

“He's bleeding out.”

“I can see that.”

“Then do something!”

“Tony, would you step out please.”

 _No_ , Steve thought. _Don't send him away,_ while at the same time he thought, _He shouldn't be here. Don't want him to die._

* * *

He drifted in a sea of pain and searing hot fever.

“Stay still,” someone said, and he knew it was Tony.

“Ton...y,” he tried to say, but it came out half strangled.

“Don't speak. Spare your breath, Steve.”

The world was moving. They were on a cart. Every movement hurt worse than being trampled by a horse.

He fell back asleep.

“Don't die. I swear to god you made this whole town go crazy. Now, don't you dare die.”

* * *

He woke in pain to a blond young lady sitting by his side. He recognized her as outspoken Ms. Carol Danvers.

“Tony's not here,” Ms. Danvers said as if Steve had voiced a thought. He wasn’t strong enough to ask any questions or lucid enough to wonder. When she mentioned Stark’s name, his thoughts latched onto the name immediately though.

His eyes fell to the small table at his side. A piece of metal caught his eye.

A horseshoe.

Tony had been here.

“Ton..y?”

“Town’s in an uproar.”

Why had nobody stopped Stark from going then?

_Because you’re here. Dying._

“They'll gun for him...” he groaned.

“He seems used to it. We're prepared for that,” Ms. Danvers answered calmly, made him sip water and watched him fall back asleep, while she talked about Red Wolf and Natasha Barnes as if they’d stepped right out of a penny dreadful.

* * *

Sometimes he woke. Most times he wasn’t sure he _was_ awake. One time he was sure he spoke to Bucky.

Then it was Tony who sat at his bedside.

“Steve,” the man said as if he had a need to be courteous.

“Your eyes are very blue,” he said and instantly hoped his voice was as weak as the rest of him felt and hadn't been heard.

“I’m glad you noticed,” Stark said deadpan and watched him lie there as if he wasn’t sure what to make of him. “Strange how the roles are reversed. Whatever they gave you against the pain makes you sound like you’ve killed a bottle too many.”

“No, I mean it,” he said stubbornly and remembered that he hadn’t wanted Tony to know.

Stark cocked his head to the side and pondered that.

“How am I…?” he started. “Where is… I mean… How is…?” Too many important questions wanted to be asked all at once, but he was slowly drifting back, pulled under by exhaustion and whatever was making his mouth feel like a well of sand while loosening his tongue. “Very blue,” he murmured.

“I’m flattered. Maybe next time you can serenade me.”

“Yeah,” he agreed and was drifting.

He still felt Tony reach for his hand and hold it.

Then he was gone.

This time the darkness was warm.

* * *

Natasha Barnes was the one to tell him. “On day five we thought you were gone. Red Wolf brought a medicine man to send you on to the next life.”

“Nice of him,” Steve muttered tiredly. “How long was I out?”

“Days,” Natasha said vaguely. “Weeks. It's been a long time.”

“Where are we?” This wasn't his place. Or the smithy. Or any room he knew.

“Tony bought the farm when the Stacy family left. Fisk wanted it, so Tony made sure nobody knew who owned it now.”

“Oh.” He let that sink in. Closed his eyes. “Never thought he wanted to be a farmer.”

An obnoxious Eastern voice drawled: “Me? Never. You? I heard you were just waiting for a chance to get your own land and put down roots.”

Steve opened his eyes. Tony stood in the doorway of the small bedroom. He looked tired, but freshly washed, and he was clad in a well kept gray overcoat. No hint of the blacksmith was in his demeanor, and no hint of the drunk in his stance.

He looked good, despite the air of exhaustion.

“Want to sell me a farm?”

“No,” Tony said quickly and took the seat on the chair when Natasha got up to leave. “You can have it.”

It was perhaps so far the gentlest hint that he was no longer needed as sheriff.

Still, coming from Tony it stung. “Arm won’t heal?” he concluded.

“Your arm will heal fine,” Tony said and leaned forward to frown at him. “Are you still out of it? Mind clouded?”

“You’re pretty sober,” Steve nearly hissed.

“Yes,” he said. “Because some fool of a sheriff told me to have his back before he went and started a much needed revolt.”

He’d missed all of that. “What now?”

Tony leaned forward even more. His arms were nearly leaning on the bedspread. “What now? Red Wolf is sheriff while you’re down and your former deputy’s wife is a hell of a deputy now herself. Fisk is gone and many of his associates have found a new home in pine boxes. We don’t know what exactly happened to the doc — he might have killed himself with his explosives. Ms. Danvers is taking over leadership of the community. But make no mistake. Roxxon is nowhere finished with us or this town. And you? You nearly died on me because you turned your back to a traitor, you idiot. I think this makes us even, Steven.”

He wasn’t sure what compelled him to ask: “Would you have missed me, Tony?”

Tony’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t lean back in his chair. He didn’t give an inch. “I’m asking you to live with me on a farm. Does that give you a hint?”

They were both men with their own wounds and secrets. But something about Tony’s understated confession warmed him. He smiled. “You’re quite the charmer when you’re not drunk.”

“You’re less annoying when you’re in no position to boss me around.” In contradiction to his words Tony grasped his fingers and Steve held them tight, pulled at them a bit. A hint of distress had crept into Tony’s otherwise composed expression.

Steve ached when he saw it.

He didn’t want to see it.

Firmly, he pulled on Tony’s fingers to make him lean down more.

Tony did.

Leaned down, wrapped his arms around Steve's shoulders, brought their foreheads together and breathed: “I came here to die, Steve. Did you have to make it complicated?”

“I would have missed you.”

He realized there were quiet tears on Tony’s face. More distress. Distress for him and the fact that he’d nearly died. No snarky comeback from Tony was forthcoming. So Steve did what he had tried to not think of too often — and even then only in the quiet solitude of his own home — and kissed the man, hard, insistent, unmistakably full of a need that some people found unspeakable.

Tony melted into it, let it happen and then kissed back with just as much fervor.

Steve would have liked to see the strong arms out of that coat and shirt, would have liked to use his own strength to pull Tony down with him, but the wound started hurting with the weight and he wheezed, had to break the kiss.

“Not up for all that yet?”

“Not quite yet,” he said, not hiding his own disappointment. He would have liked to follow up the fire of the kisses with more passion, now that he knew he could admit to it without driving Tony away. “Put something up too long, that’s what you get. Now I need to rest before I can enjoy it.”

Tony looked surprised but masked the expression when he realized Steve was watching. He nudged gently against Steve’s shoulder so he moved over on the narrow bed. “You’ll have to learn to share the bed then. I need some rest too.”

He didn’t protest, let Tony climb in unceremoniously with his dusty clothes on, dramatically throwing the back of his right hand over his eyes. Even with a throbbing wound, Steve didn't mind that he was now stuck in the bed with barely any room left to stretch out comfortably.

He minded even less when Tony started talking, quietly, methodically giving Steve a picture of all that had happened when he’d been stuck somewhere between life and death.

For a while he listened to Tony talk about the new Timely, about Stark Industries, about Tony’s plans for the future that all came back to the quiet wonder of wanting a future at all. Because of Steve.

Because he wanted to stay with Steve.

Here.

And Steve realized he wanted that future too.

To give it a try at least.

Patch himself up as best he could and see where it led. Perhaps he and Tony could help each other there.

* * *

_Two Years Later_

The fence had been knocked over by the recent storm. The repairs would be easy for two men; with just one it was a pain. He barely had the second plank back up before another fell down and took another pole with it. He cursed.

“Need a hand?”

Tony had arrived on the cart, Natasha sitting beside him in her poncho and Cheyenne leathers. Everyone in Timely had become used to sharp shooting women and close dealings with the reservation.

“So you can feel like you’re the doting husband?” she joked and grinned at Tony.

Tony chuckled goodnaturedly. “I _am_ the doting husband. I bring home the money, provide for us.”

“He’s a good wife when nobody is around to impress,” Steve said without smiling.

“Sometimes,” Tony admitted and wiggled his eyebrows, “because there is _one_ person to impress.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “I am not that interested in what goes on in the bachelor household, thank you.”

“I guessed you weren’t here to talk marriage arrangements, Deputy Barnes,” Steve said and let his old friend’s name roll of his tongue with pride. Bucky had married one hell of a woman, and he was sure the man had known it. They had all kept their secrets.

“No,” Natasha admitted and looked sideways at them while Steve helped Tony down from the cart as if he needed a hand. Tony accepted his help without a word.

“Trouble?”

Steve looked from one to the other.

There was a new armor waiting in their barn that Tony hadn’t tested yet. His designs were getting more sophisticated with every battle they fought. And he'd made Steve a shield — something to use to protect himself from collecting bullet holes, but also as a weapon in a fight. He was getting quite good at using it, though he stuck with his Colts for now.

“Time,” Natasha said and grinned, “to assemble.”

Steve nodded. Tipped his hat. “Aye, ma'am.”

He had ridden out a couple of times now with the mask. “Captain” the folks around here had started to call him. “Widow” they called Natasha when she rode against whatever Roxxon’s new man in town wanted to bring against them.

And there was Iron Man.

Tony, who right now looked like he’d spent most of the day working in the dirt of his workshop at the new business that proudly wore his name again, nodded at Natasha, before turning to Steve: “This time you take the new shield. You get shot at much too frequently.”

“So do you, sweetheart.”

“I wear armor. I can take it.” Muttering about stubbornness and cursing Steve with the sweetest sound of sober exasperation, Tony vanished into the barn that had turned into his makeshift armory sometime after they'd decided on not buying any more cows.

Steve threw a last look at his fence. It had come to symbolize so much more to him: the peaceful life he had been looking for, hearth and home, a family out in the wilderness.

But danger was on their doorstep again.

The Avengers were needed.

Farming would have to wait.

He stepped on the porch to get his shield and his eyes fell on the red automaton face of “Stark's Vision of the Future” that sat there behind the dusty glass, just as it had since Tony had moved it out here to their farm. After a week of tinkering wit it he had recently declared it no longer broken. On a whim Steve pulled out a coin from his pocket and then took the heavy card that dropped out of the machine: “It's worth fighting for that which you love.”

“Get your shield, Captain, we're needed. What are you doing with that useless old thing?” Tony called over from the barn. He was already mostly armored up.

“You fixed it,” he reminded Tony, grinning over his shoulder, sliding the card between his fingers and letting it vanish inside of his shirt, where he would keep it over his heart. “Don't worry,” he called to his lover. “I'll catch up to you. I always do.”

They always did catch up with each other eventually. Side by side they were whole — and nigh invincible, steel forged by the fire of their troubles.

Everything had worked out in the end. But it wouldn't for those who disturbed their peace.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me for fic updates on [tumblr](https://navaanwrites.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/navaanwrites). This fic has a post on the tumblr [here](https://navaanwrites.tumblr.com/post/178591316509/patch-yourself-up-and-hold-navaan-1872) in case you want to share it. It also has a page on my [Dreamwidth](https://navaan.dreamwidth.org/620633.html).


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